


The Cynic's Guide to a Merry Christmas

by TheLastGoodGoldfish



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Children, Christmas, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Romance, background Jackie / Wallace, background Keith / Alicia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 20:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17189534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastGoodGoldfish/pseuds/TheLastGoodGoldfish
Summary: Logan's got pretty much zero Christmas spirit, and no one who knows him would call him a pushover. And yet, here he is: a total sucker for a lost cause and a pair of sad eyes, which somehow has landed him in the second row center aisle of the St. Basil’s K-to-8 Christmas Pageant.(It goes better than expected.)





	The Cynic's Guide to a Merry Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Holiday Grab Bag Prompt #1 - Veronica and Logan attend a child’s Christmas pageant.

Logan sometimes wonders how he finds himself in these situations.

He doesn’t consider himself an overly generous person. If anything, generosity is a trait he should probably work on—along with patience and overall tolerance for idiots. Really it’s more of a general misanthropy issue. He’s a touch on the cynical side, got pretty much _zero_ Christmas spirit, and no one who knows him would call him a pushover. And yet, here he is: a total sucker for a lost cause and a pair of sad eyes, which somehow has landed him in the second row center aisle of the St. Basil’s K-to-8 Christmas Pageant.

He’s been to enough of these things to know that you don’t sit in the front row: never the front row. There’s a seventy-five percent chance one of these first graders gets stage fright and hurls, and Logan’s not risking elementary school projectile vomit on cashmere.

He’s _also_ been to enough of these things to know you arrive early. Like, really early. Events like these are a big deal for St. Basil’s parents, and the auditorium is going to fill up quick. It’s a high-profile, low-effort opportunity to show how devoted a parent you are. Also, it’s easy enough to send along a nanny to save seats.

So, a full twenty minutes before show-time, Logan’s halfway through his wait, slumped in his chair, and mildly regretful that he came to this at all. (See prior references to misanthropy.)

But then Asher pops his little auburn mop-of-a-head out from the curtains stage left and spots Logan, and his whole round-cheeked, freckled face lights up. He waves enthusiastically, and Logan chuckles and waves back. _Alright, that’s pretty cute_. So yeah, Asher’s deadbeat mom can’t be bothered to drag herself from some C-List director’s yacht, but at least the kid has _someone_ in the audience for him.

“ _Logan! I thought that was you!_ ”

Ugh. On the other hand: here comes reason number seventy-two why these events _suck._

Bored-Trophy-Wives-Who-Model-Their-Behavior-on-Reality-Television are an absolute staple of high-end L.A. schools like St. Basil’s, and the particular specimen squealing Logan’s name as she squeezes down the aisle in a tight wrap dress and stilettos is a prime example. Lulu’s her name: Logan met her when he brought Asher to the Halloween parade this year, and—despite the twenty-carat skating rink on her left hand—she made her interest very obvious. The offer might have had some appeal ten years ago, but, at thirty, Logan finds it stale.

Lulu is persistent, though. She repeats his name four or five times, until she’s standing right next to him, squished in front of the annoyed couple seated to Logan’s right, and he has no choice but to acknowledge her.

“Hi there, how are you?” he says, but the utter flatness of his tone does nothing to dispirit the woman.

“It is _so_ sweet that you are here!” she gushes. Lulu’s in her late twenties, blonde and busty and very _L.A._ in all of Logan’s least favorite ways. “Little Asher must be _so_ excited!”

Logan _mhms_ along, unfolds and studies the pageant program—not because he has any particular interest in the names of the sixth graders cast as the Three Wise Men, but because he thinks it might convey his disinterest in the conversation.

“You are just _so_ involved, I _love it_ ,” Lulu prattles on. “Do you ever...?”

“How’s your husband doing?” interrupts Logan, before she can really get going.

“Oh he’s just the best,” croons Lulu, flattening her palm over her chest. “Just the sweetest, most wonderful thing in the whole world. He’s in Paris right up until Christmas. Probably doing my shopping for me. Garth just _loves_ to spoil me... anyway that he _can_ , anyway.” She winks and scoots a little closer, so her calf brushes against Logan’s pant leg. He crosses his legs away from her. “Unfortunately, that means I’m all alone tonight. Is that seat taken?” She points one bedazzled fingernail to the empty seat to Logan’s left.

“I’m afraid so,” says Logan, even though he has no contingency plan for the claim: the seat is decidedly _not_ taken, but he let Lulu sit next to him at the Thanksgiving food drive and he’s learned his lesson.

“Awww.” Lulu pouts. “Is it that famous girlfriend you keep mentioning? How come I never get to meet her, Lo?”

 _The girlfriend_ was a lie of necessity that Logan introduced during his encounter with Fiona Hutton—a peppy divorcee who brought her daughter to Asher’s last birthday party and made it very clear that she was getting sick of the alimony set-up. News of Logan’s fictional girlfriend quickly reached the other single, interested mothers (there were one or two) and now, apparently, the not-so-single Lulu Steppington.

“Well,” says Logan, and he doesn’t have time to worry about the follow-through on this particular lie, “she’s actually...”

“—Late as usual, I’m _so_ sorry, honey!”

Logan whips around to face yet another blonde, who has dropped herself into the empty seat on his left. He scarcely has the chance to register her words or the fact that he’s never seen this woman before in his life, before she’s leaning over and pecking him on the cheek.  He pulls back on reflex, but the woman doesn’t seem the slightest bit abashed. She just beams at him, then up at Lulu.

— _Lulu_ , whose entire demeanor has shifted. She’s glaring at this new arrival like the latter pissed in her Lemon-Kale smoothie, and without even an artificially polite greeting, she says: “It’s _you_.”

“Oh, have we met?” The woman loops her arm through Logan’s, tilts her head oh-so-innocently.

“In line,” Lulu deadpans. “Earlier.”

“Oh, was that _you_?”

“Anyway,” says Logan, “Lulu, I want you to meet my girlfriend.”

“Veronica,” she coos, but there’s acid beneath the sugar.

They shake hands, and Lulu doesn’t even bother with sugar: “Pleasure.” She grimaces at Logan, then begins casting around the rest of the auditorium, “Well, I guess I’d better find another seat...”

“You know I think there’s something in the front row there,” says the woman—Veronica—helpfully pointing to the far end of the hall. Lulu offers one last look of displeasure, than scoots along to make other arrangements. The moments she’s gone, Veronica releases Logan’s arm and falls back against her chair.

“Hope you don’t mind the assumption, but you looked pretty desperate,” she says, then plucks a program from her handbag and begins to study it.

Logan takes his first good look at the woman and realizes that—aside from everything else—“Veronica” is kind of out of place here. She’s wearing a black leather jacket over a white sweater, tight black pants and high-heeled motorcycle boots—a far cry from the sweater sets and Christmas dresses largely populating the room at the moment.

“Not as desperate as some,” says Logan, still a little thrown by all of this. “Veronica, was it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Logan.”

She shakes his hand, imitates Lulu’s tone from before: “ _Pleasure.”_

Logan laughs. “I’m a little afraid to ask, but what happened in line earlier?”

“Hmmm? Oh, with Fluffy?”

“Lulu.”

“Whatever. She tried to cut me.”

“So you—what? Took her family hostage? Just judging by her reaction...”

“I dealt with it,” says Veronica primly.

“I _bet_ you did.”

She’s wearing a ring on her left hand. Actually she’s wearing _two_ rings on her left hand, one on her ring finger and one on her middle finger, like they’re a set, and while they don’t exactly look like wedding bands, they... _Christ, he’s as bad as Lulu._

“Well thanks for the bail out, but how do you know I’m not actually saving that seat for someone?” Logan asks, opening up his own program again in feigned disinterest.

“Oh please, that girlfriend story was so obvious you’d have to be a thirsty trophy wife to believe it.”

“Doesn’t mean the seat’s not reserved,” he sing songs. “I mean you could’ve asked.”

Veronica sets down her program and shoots him a look. “You’re not very grateful, you know.”

“Just saying, this is prime real estate right here.”

“Without a doubt. Second row, center aisle. Which reminds me...” Veronica relocates her purse—a large black handbag with a studded strap—to the empty chair to her left. “I’m supposed to save seats.” She pulls off her leather jacket and tosses it to cover the place two seats down. Then she glances back at Logan, “Hey can I borrow your jacket?”

“Huh?”

“To save that seat.” She points to the spot three chairs down from her. Logan tugs off his black bomber jacket and hands it over, and Veronica goes to place it over the last vacant seat in the row.

“Saving room for _Mr._ Motorcycle Boots?” Logan asks, when she returns.

Veronica smiles, chews on her tongue, considering. “For my sister-in-law and my parents,” she replies at length, and Logan’s left to decide what _that_ means. “How old is yours?” she asks, with a nod at the stage.

“Oh I’m just here for the show.”

Veronica snorts. “Mmm, the high talent of rich grade school kids.”

“Better than the Ice-Capades,” Logan says. “Nothing beats listening to a bunch of seventh graders, with their voices _just_ starting to change, fuck up _I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.”_

“ _Excuse_ me!” One of the mothers in the row in front of them turns to glare at Logan; “The children work _very_ hard on this performance! And I do _not_ appreciate your language.”

“Yeah, _Logan_.” But Veronica’s smothering a laugh, even as she clicks her tongue at him. The other mother turns back around, and Logan rolls his eyes.

“Traitor,” he whispers, to which Veronica shrugs.

“Maybe you should’ve acted a little more grateful for the bail-out.”

_Fuck, she’s cute. Maybe she’s single somehow...?_

“Veronica!” That must be the sister-in-law. She’s a pretty black woman about their age, dressed in a suit like she just came from work and carrying one of those giant mom-purses. The woman edges down the aisle, and as she approaches, Logan thinks she looks a little familiar. “Thanks for saving seats. Traffic was crazy.”

“Yeah no problem,” says Veronica.

“Wallace is backstage?”

“Yep. How does it feel to be married to _the_ parent coordinator for the St. Basil’s Christmas Pageant?”

“It’s almost _too_ much prestige. I’m just trying to stay grounded.” The woman leans around Veronica to nod at Logan, and that’s when recognition hits.

“I think we’ve met before...?” he starts to say, and she squints, trying to place him.

“Asher Echolls’s seventh birthday?”

“That’s the one.”

“Logan Echolls?”

“Jackie Cook?”

“Guess we’re all friends,” says Veronica.

“Not at all,” says Jackie. “This is the man who taught my children about all the video game systems that they don’t own. They would _never_ have known.”

“You gotta buy their love somehow.”

“You couldn’t just use stuffed animals?” Jackie softens. “Good to see you again.”

“You too.”

She shifts back to Veronica. “I’m gonna say _hi_ to Wallace and then wave down Keith and Alicia. It’s a _warzone_ out there. I heard a rumor they’re low on tickets.”

“Veronica threw down with Lulu Steppington,” says Logan helpfully.

“Oh my God, of course you did.” Jackie hops to her feet, “I’ll be back.”

When Jackie’s gone, Veronica turns to scowl at Logan. “You didn’t have to rat me out.”

“I had to warn her. Lulu Steppington is very powerful in these circles. She snaps her fingers and Jackie’s on Field Trip duty for the rest of the year. Have you ever herded forty first graders around the Getty?”

“Have _you_?”

“No, but I’ve heard the stories.”

“Point taken.”

“So you’re the twins’ aunt, huh?” he asks. He’s excited for a second, before he realizes that being an aunt does not preclude her from having a spouse of her own. If only he could make up his mind what those rings are about. They really look more _decorative_ than symbolic, anyway...

“Zoe and Henry,” Veronica confirms with a nod. “And yours is...” she winces almost imperceptibly, “ _Asher_?”

“I know, what an asshole name, right? Which is funny, because he’s like the nicest kid on the planet.”

Veronica laughs. “Didn’t you get a vote?”

“God, no.” _As if Trina would’ve listened to him anyway_. “I didn’t even know he existed until he was three months old.”

Veronica blinks several times, clearly thrown by the admission. “Oh.”

—At which point Logan realizes how it sounds.

“Oh, no, I’m not...” he begins to explain, but then a matronly woman in a wide-cut magenta suit taps the microphone in the center of the stage and asks for everyone’s attention, and they’re both momentarily distracted.

“Welcome, parents and guests. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Headmistress Adler...”

“ _Headmistress,”_ echoes Veronica, smirking. “So pretentious.”

And Logan would agree, but first he has to clear up one little thing, “Totally. Y’know, Asher isn’t...”

“ _Veronica!”_ someone calls out from the end of the row, and it looks like the aforementioned parents have arrived. Or maybe just one of them—an older woman, who’s making her way down the aisle toward them. “Thank God you got seats!”

The cranky mother in the first row—the one who lectured Logan for his language—hushes them loudly, and Logan scoffs. “What, you need instructions to watch a Christmas program?”

“Nice _seats_ , Veronica,” her mother ( _step mother? Logan’s just guessing_ ) says, dropping into the space two chairs down. “Keith’s parking, and Jackie’s got his ticket outside. It is a _madhouse_ back there. At least four men with very expensive cars were threatening lawsuits.”

“Wallace is backstage,” Veronica tells her. “Darrell’s sitting with his girlfriend.”

“Did they take pictures yet?”

“Only about a hundred?”

“It’s okay, I’ll get more after the show.”

“—And once again, I _must_ ask,” Headmistress Adler is saying on stage, “that you all refrain from using your cellphones or video-recording devices during the performance. The entire pageant _will_ be recorded by our AV Teacher, Ms. Franklin, and DVDs will be available for purchase on the twenty-first...”

“The sad thing is...” Logan looks up when he realizes Veronica is leaned towards him and murmuring over his shoulder, “...You know you’re going to buy a DVD.” She hands back his jacket.

“And _never_ watch it,” he agrees.

“Well why would you?”

“It’ll be the exact same show next year.”

“And we’ll show up again and dish out twelve bucks again, like suckers.”

Logan grins. “So what are yours dressed up as?”

“Zoe and Henry? Candy Canes.”

“Y’know, I don’t pretend to be an expert on the Bible, but I _don’t_ remember Candy Canes in the Nativity scene.”

“It’s a new translation.”

“Ah.”

“What about Asher?”

“Well.” Logan clears his throat. “I don’t want to brag...”

“It seems like you do.”

“He’s the Star.”

“The star? Like... Jesus?”

“No, the literal Star. In the sky. The one the wise men follow or whatever.”

“Oh wow.”

 “He has to climb a ladder to stand over the stable...”

“No.”

“He’s afraid of heights, he’s _probably_ going to fall.”

“Stop.”

“I know. He’s got this sweater with the light-up star on it...”

“Is it _so_ fucking cute?”

“It is _stupid_ fucking cute.”

The mother in the front row shifts to glower at them, but neither pays her much heed. “That’s how they get you,” Veronica says. “Making your kid look stupid fucking cute and selling a DVD of it back to you for twelve bucks a pop.”

“Genius racket,” Logan agrees. “But Asher actually isn’t...”

“Alicia! Veronica!”

_Christ on a fucking cracker._

A short-ish bald man in khakis and a scarlet pullover pushes his way down the aisle towards them—Veronica’s dad, presumably, since he’s accompanied by Jackie. “You would not believe the chaos that is unfolding at that ticket booth...”

“ _Please_!” insists the mother in the row in front of them, “I’m _trying_ to listen to Headmistress Adler’s instructions!”

Veronica’s father looks lost: “What? You need directions to watch a Christmas pageant?”

 

Veronica is mostly caught up with her family for the next few minutes until the program begins, at which point the theater goes dark and the Kindergarteners step on stage to stammer their way through _All I Want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth_.

Each grade comes on and sings a couple of carols—Asher’s class, the first graders, stumble adorably through _Jingle Bells_ and _Silent Night—_ with sporadic Biblical readings from the older students.

It’s during the fourth grader’s rendition of _Rudolph_ that Veronica leans over the armrest separating their seats and murmurs, “God, who directed this? _David Lean_?”

Logan snorts. “It would definitely benefit from a good editor.”

“My Candy Canes were pretty cute up there, huh?”

“Was that a _scheduled_ tap solo?”

“I think it was impromptu. Henry likes to show off.”

“Well sure, a little something for the talent scouts in the audience.”

Veronica covers her mouth with her knuckles, and Logan tries to suss out the least weird way to introduce the fact that he is decidedly single, while determining if the same can be said for her.

 

The whole thing finally comes to an end after ninety mostly excruciating minutes. The Nativity scene is the grand finale: Asher _doesn’t_ fall from the ladder, no one projectile vomits, and the second the curtains close, the whole auditorium erupts in chaos. As eager as everyone was to get seats, they’re all the more eager to be first out of the parking lot. It’s like the last two minutes of a Lakers game.

“There are cookies and cocoa in the lobby!” Headmistress Adler hollers futilely over the din.

Then the kids start streaming out from backstage. Logan is nearly trampled by the couple seated to his right, as they try to extract their half-costumed fifth grader from a group of his friends. The lights go on, the curtains pull back again, revealing the chaos of the deconstructing stage, and Logan spots Asher trying in vain to brush glitter off of his sweater. Veronica is busy coordinating with Jackie and her parents—a spirited discussion, they’re all pointing and gesticulating—and Logan’s just trying to determine if he should linger, say _bye_ or something, when Asher spots him and starts waving him over.

_Dammit._

Maybe they’ll stay for cookies and cocoa?

(Christ, he’s going to get his misanthrope card revoked any minute.)

Logan climbs over the first row (earning glares galore, but fuck ‘em) and jogs along the side of the hall to climb the stairs and intercept an excited Asher.

“Dude.”

“Uncle Logan!”

The seven year old is bouncing up and down, high on either adrenaline or sugar, when Logan drops to his knees in front of him. “Dude, you crushed it.”

“I crushed it!” Asher repeats, like he doesn’t know what it means at all, but grasps the spirt of the thing. “I ‘membered all the words in the songs and I didn’t fall off the ladder!”

“Not even a little bit.”

“And Ingrid L. said I could have her candy cane because she’s allergic to sugar.”

(More like Ingrid L.’s mom is a liar, but sure.)

“ _Nice_ ,” says Logan. “You have fun?”

“Yeah, but there’s too much glitter.” Asher once again starts attacking the glitter that clings to his sleeves, but Logan shakes his head.

“It’s a lost cause, Dude. I dated a couple sorority girls in my time, and let me tell you: glitter always wins.”

Asher looks up and around, remembering something: “Is Mommy here?”

“Um—no. She is not.” Logan claps a hand on his shoulder, searching hastily for a suitable lie. “You wanna know why?”

“Why?”

“It is because... well... you know how Santa Claus is totally fake, right?”

“Uncle Logan!” Asher scolds him. “You have to be _quiet_.” He peers around the crowded stage anxiously. “Miss Tuppy says we can’t tell the other kids about that!”

(Trina had been on an “honesty” kick— _I don’t want to LIE to my CHILD, Logan!_ —although Logan’s pretty sure she was just in a bad mood and felt like ruining a seven-year-old’s day. She lies to Asher almost constantly.)

“Right, sorry. Well, since...” he drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “...Santa Claus is fake, your mom has to go buy all your presents. And she was in the store, and she found _the perfect_ present for you. Except it was the wrong color. So she asked them if they had any in a _different_ color, and the store said no, but if she went to the manufacturer—where they make the present—then she could get one in the right color.”

“Green?”

“Of course. So your mom drove all the way out to the manufacturer, which was in... um, Minnesota. And she got the right color. _But_ when she tried to put it in her car, it wouldn’t fit.”

“What’s the present?”

“I can’t tell you, you’ll find out at Christmas.” (The brand new ten-speed sitting in his storage unit should do the trick, right?) “So, your mom rented a truck to drive the present back here, but it snows in Minnesota, and the truck got stuck in a snowbank, because your mom’s a real bad driver. So she had to call a tow truck, and the tow truck took _forever_ to get to her, and she wasn’t able to make it back to California in time for the show. But she made me _promise_ to buy a copy of the DVD, so she can watch it later.”

Asher takes it in stride, which is probably the saddest part of the whole thing. “Is Jessica gonna drive me home?” he asks.

“Nope, I gave Jessica the night off. You’re gonna have a sleepover at my place.”

His nephew lights up again. “Is Marlowe gonna be there?”

“Yep. But she and I aren’t speaking at the moment, so she’s gonna have to sleep in your bed.”

“ _Yes!_ ”

“Alright.” Logan straightens up, makes a foolhardy attempt to get some glitter out of Asher’s hair ( _ugh, it’s gonna be all over his car_ ), then says, “You go get your stuff and meet me back here, okay?”

“Okay!”

“And don’t forget to collect on that candy cane from Ingrid L.!” Logan calls after him.

“I don’t know what’s the worst lie there—the DVD or the domestic manufacturer.”

Logan grins. Turns to see Veronica watching him, arms folded, head tilted. Behind her, Jackie and the Grandpa are listening to the twins’ animated—if distracted—retelling of the evening, while a man (presumably the twins’ father) seems to be having some kind of stress meltdown with the grandmother. Veronica ignores them all, so Logan takes that as his cue.

“The great thing about seven year olds,” he says, “is that their grasp of U.S. trade policy and the current state of American manufacturing is... tenuous at best.”

“You know, I saw that whole scene just now,” Veronica goes on with a wave of her hand—Logan takes a couple steps closer—“And it’s really pretty shameful.”

“How so?”

“Oh _please_. You know exactly what you’re doing. Dressed all _fun uncle_. I’m surprised Ms. Franklin and the AV club weren’t here to film it. Lulu Steppington would’ve bought ten copies.”

“Oh like you’re any better,” says Logan. “You love being the cool aunt, Miss Leather-Jacket-to-the-Christmas-Pageant.”

Veronica laughs. “So is there a _Mrs._ Cashmere Henley?” she asks, with a pointed look.

“Nope.”

“Marlowe?”

“My two-year-old Doberman-Lab mutt. You’re quite the eavesdropper there, Cool Aunt Veronica.”

“Professional hazard.”

(Logan has no idea what that means, but he has a feeling he’ll find out.)

“So is there a _Mr._ Cool Aunt Veronica?”

“Nope.”

“And yet the ambiguous rings?”

“What, these? Precautionary measure. Lotta creepy old guys like to go third wife shopping at these things. You should try it sometime.”

“Third wife shopping?”

She holds up her left hand. “Ambiguous rings.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“Any time.” There’s a moment of loaded silence, as they both deliberate on how best to proceed, and then Veronica breaks it with a dramatic sigh. “Ugh, _fine_ , I can’t with all the begging, I give in.”

“Hmm?”

“You and your nephew can tag along with us to get ice cream.” She gestures to the whole motley crew carrying on their business behind her. “But you should know, the Mars-Fennel-Cooks take ice cream very seriously, and there’s a three topping minimum.”

Logan grins, and it’s at that moment that Asher reappears, grabbing his uncle’s sleeve to get his attention. Logan pretends not to notice. “I don’t know. Sounds like fun, but Asher _hates_ ice cream.”

“I do _not!_ ”

“What, seriously?”

“I love ice cream!”

“Um, no. I’m pretty sure you told me you hated it.”

“I didn’t! I...” Asher breaks off and squints up at Logan, “You’re _joking_.” He slugs Logan lightly in the arm, and Logan winces.

“Fine. You wanna get ice cream with your friends?” ( _And their parents and grandparents and super-hot aunt?)_

“Yes!” And before Logan can comment further, he takes off to confer with the twins about the new plan.

Veronica smirks at him. “So tell the truth: was ice cream with first graders on your calendar for tonight?”

“Nah, but it’s fine, we can still hit the strip club on the way home.”

“Oh I bet parents _love_ you.”

 

* * *

 

  

Time and time again, Veronica wonders:  _how does she let herself get roped into these things?_

It’s bad enough that she had to show up to the school _forty minutes_ before the Christmas program begins, but she also has to save _far_ too many seats; she’s monopolizing most of the center aisle second row and the other parents are starting to glare.

Of course, glaring would be preferable to the alternative, she realizes, when Garth Steppington finds his way to her, leaning over the front row to invade her airspace with the odor of spray tan and pomade.

“Veronica, isn’t it?” he croaks—well, he doesn’t really croak, but he’s well into his sixties and Veronica’s not feeling generous.

“Mr. Steppington,” she replies, just to be a dick.

“Please, call me Garth.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. I still feel like a _kid_ at these things, you know? Not like the _old_ grown-up parents.” She gives her smile an extra sarcastic sparkle, and Garth clears his throat.

“You look lovely this evening,” he tries again, then frowns when he realizes that Veronica isn’t exactly dressed for the pageant. One of these years she’ll get the hang of the whole Christmas Sweater thing, but she came from work, and she doesn’t think a light-up reindeer jumper will inspire client confidence. “Your niece is in my daughter’s class, I think? Third grade?”

“Mhm.” She picks up the program and crosses her legs, hoping he’ll catch the hint. Rumor has it, Garth and the Missus have split, and he’s step-mom shopping. Regardless, he’s barking up the wrong blonde.

“Tell me, have you ever...?”

“Hey, sorry I’m late.”

Logan’s arrived.

Not like a normal human being, mind you, because he swings himself over from the row above them and drops into the chair to Veronica’s right. He ignores the cheek he’s offered and plants a quick kiss on her neck instead, pulling back and grinning wickedly before Veronica can swat him. He stretches both arms out along the seatback and props crossed ankles on the chair in front of him, and it’s only once he’s completed this act of The Logan Echolls Show that he acknowledges Garth at all. “Hey there.”

“Hello,” says Garth, leaning back. “You must be the boyfriend.”

Before Logan can say anything, Veronica chimes in with, “Fiancée actually.” Logan’s head whips around to her, but she ignores this.

“Oh. Well. Congratulations.” Garth does not sound congratulatory at _all_.

“Thanks,” Veronica gushes, threading her fingers through Logan’s, hanging over her shoulder, while Garth looks around for an escape path.

“You know, I think I’ve just spotted...”

“Toodles,” Veronica chirps, and Steppington doesn’t even bother finishing the excuse before he scuttles off. Logan is still staring at her, and Veronica returns to the pageant program.

“So we’re engaged, are we?” he says after a long moment. “When did that happen?”

“Mmmmm—about two weeks ago maybe?”

“What happened two weeks ago?”

“I decided I wanted to marry you.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I thought I did.”

“No.”

“Didn’t I leave a post-it on the fridge?”

“Don’t think so, no.”

“I’m _sure_ I mentioned it.”

“I would remember.”

“Oh, well. Now you know.”

“Thanks for the update.”

“Anytime.”

“You didn’t reserve enough seats.”

Veronica looks up and down the aisle, affronted. “Yes I did.”

“Nope, we need one more.”

“No. Look.” She points to each chair as she goes, “Dad, Alicia, Darrell, Darrell’s girlfriend...”

“ _Isabell_ e.”

“...Yes, Isabelle, Jackie, no-seat-for-Wallace-because-he’s-backstage, me, you, Trina, Trina’s boyfriend...”

“ _Harold_.”

“...Harold and Terrence. I didn’t forget anyone.”

“And what if Terrence brings a date again like last year, hmm?”

Ugh. Logan looks so smug, but he’s right. “Dammit. That’s it, we’re officially the whole second row. I wish he would _tell us_ when he’s bringing someone.”

“Mhm.” But Logan’s not paying attention. He leans over and is kissing her neck again, and it feels so lovely, Veronica doesn’t think she can be blamed for taking a whole minute to remember to reprimand him.

“Logan, this is a children’s Christmas pageant. We’re here to watch nine year-olds sing carols.”

“Mhm.”

“Inappropriate.” _If deeply satisfying._ She sighs and relaxes into it when he grazes his teeth along her pulse point. Then, with one last smacking kiss, he pulls back and snatches the program from her hands. _Tease_. “I was joking, you know,” she says.

“About what?”

“Before. The—engaged thing. It’s just our St. Basil’s Christmas Pageant tradition to lie to the other parents. Like how last year I told Angie Dahl that you just got outta prison. Same thing.”

“Okay.” He’s goes on reading the names on the program like it’s nothing. Veronica settles in, not sure how she feels about that. Then Logan says, ever so casually, “I thought maybe you’d gone through your Christmas presents early.”

Veronica straightens up. “What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Logan.”

“What?”

“What did you get me?”

“You haveta wait till Christmas.”

“Says who?”

“This can’t be the first time you’re hearing this.”

“Logan.”

“What?”

But then they’re interrupted by the arrival of the rest of the Mars-Fennel-Cook-Echolls throng, and everyone’s speaking at once without the slightest bit of regard for one another or the fact that Veronica is _trying_ to interrogate her boyfriend-turned-maybe-fiancée here.

“Oh, Ronnie, I love how you just wear whatever you like, it’s so _refreshing,”_ Trina is raving somewhere in the background, while Jackie recaps a feud going down between two Mercedes in the parking lot, and her dad and Alicia debate whether they really need to have the whole _row._  There isn’t the time to be having this conversation with Logan.

So Veronica narrows her eyes and leans over to whisper in his ear, “You _know_ I’m going to find out.”

Logan lets out a short breath, and she can hear the smirk in his voice, right along with the anticipation, “I’m sorta counting on it.”

She draws back, turns to give her family the attention they so desperately seek.

For his part, Logan must confess that he hasn't fully resolved all issues re: misanthropy and overall tolerance for idiots, love-of-his-life and accompanying crazy family notwithstanding. It's kind of hard to turn in your  _cynic_ card when your girlfriend's basically a platinum member.

But he'd like to believe he's getting a better handle on the Christmas Spirit situation. The main thing is to save a lot of seats.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays, all!


End file.
